


The (Great) Games We Play

by Ikkunaprinsessa



Series: Lovers Lost [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Established Relationship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sexual Frustration, Snogging, love isn't easy, relationship angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-21 19:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1561901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ikkunaprinsessa/pseuds/Ikkunaprinsessa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock were a couple before the series starts. They lost each other when John went to war and were reunited during the events of 'To Lovers Lost'. Now they really need to figure out their relationship and deal with some issues. But how are they supposed to do that when the world around them is set on fire? Will their love survive their run-in with Moriarty and the events at the swimming pool?</p>
<p>It's recommended to read 'To Lovers Lost' first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brooding

**Author's Note:**

> So, here comes the sequel.  
> Some people wanted to see all the episodes of the first season with John's and Sherlock's changed history, but well I really don't like "The Blind Banker" (it's the one weak episode in the series!). So, now it's "The Great Game" with some flashbacks to "The Blind Banker". Hope that works for you guys! Let me know! :))

**John's POV**

**February 2011**

London was treated to a chilly wind and a constant drizzle when I made my way back to Baker Street. Stamford had wanted to introduce me to his new girlfriend (good thing he recovered from his divorce finally) and they'd invited me over for tea. Now it was half past six and already it was pitch black dark and freezing. I could have taken the tube... I should have taken the tube probably, but there were things on my mind and a bit of walking usually helped me think.

Stamford had asked me how things were going with me and Sherlock. And I had wanted to talk to him, I'd craved an opportunity to talk to somebody, but when Mike sat there grinning at me from ear to ear - not only happy for us but thrilled almost that Sherlock and me were back together - I didn't have the heart to tell him that things were going... well, not so good. Or were they?

I buried my hands in my pockets and braved the chill and the rain and let my mind wander. Something had happened between us, even if I still didn't know what exactly had happened.

**A couple of weeks earlier**

"I had a row, in the shop, with a chip-and-PIN machine." I confessed.

Sherlock lowered the book he'd been reading and looked at me, fighting hard probably to hide his amusement. "You ... had a row with a machine?" There was laughter in his voice.

"Sort of", I grumbled. "It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?"

He gave me that small lop-sided smirk but his eyes were soft when he nodded towards the kitchen. "Take my card."

I found his wallet on the kitchen table and took his card, thinking briefly that it would actually feel quite intimate to walk around with my lover's cash card. It sparked a small smile despite all my earlier indignation. I turned round to look at him. He was wearing that handsome charcoal suit again, looking for all the world like GQ's man of the year 2011, granted that he was once again reading with that patented listless expression on his face. And who was I? An aging ex-soldier that could neither pay his bills, nor get a grip on modern technology. And I got to have *him*?

I walked over to his chair and leaned over it. He looked up from his book curiously and the smallest of smiles crept onto his face just before I bent down to capture his lips. I kissed him sweetly and gently at first but as always he wanted to deepen the kiss quickly. His hand came up to wind through my hair and bring me closer as his tongue dipped between my lips. With a deep humming sound I plucked that book out of his hands and tossed it over to the table. Our tongues loved playing hide-and-seek, dipping against each other and withdrawing again. I shuffled closer still, until my feet hit something metallic. I broke the kiss and looked down automatically.

"Is that a sword blade?"

Sherlock made a sound of lust-driven frustration. "Irrelevant. Come here." He was gripping the front of my jacket and pulled me closer until I climbed that chair and straddled his lap.

From close-up I could see the tiniest of cuts on Sherlock smooth white throat. Something had nicked the skin there. I touched it gingerly. "Are you alright?"

There was an impatient grumble coming from deep in his chest. "I'll tell you later. No talking now." And with that he pulled me into another passionate kiss. He bit my lower lip, knowing exactly how much I liked that and then drew back, still holding my lip between his teeth. Needless to say that I forgot, what it was he wanted to tell me, at the very sight. He looked up at me with large darkened eyes and his voice was a sexy quiet growl: "You're overdressed." His hands slid over my shoulders and into my jacket smoothly until he could remove it, pulling it down my arms. He sucked and bit at my neck playfully when my hands were momentarily trapped in the sleeves.

_Ohh, that what you're thinking of right now?_

I shook off the jacket and reached for his shirt buttons with a sudden urgency. Still I held my head bent to the side so he could continue his sensual attack of my neck. It coaxed some soft breathy moans from me and made me fumble with his buttons stupidly. When I finally succeeded, my hands roamed his chest with hunger and need. All this smooth pale skin! And although I never saw him do any work-out, I could feel graceful lithe muscles ripple under my hands. When my fingers brushed over a nipple he moaned softly, close to my ear. With a wicked little grin, I attacked his nipples in earnest - stroking them with my thumb and pinching them gently between two fingers. It made him bury his face in my shoulder and moan helplessly. Then he let himself sink back in his chair and he looked up at me with red swollen lips. Incredibly hot! I bent down to brush my lips and tongue over his briefly. It made his eyes flutter shut, long dark lashes resting against his cheeks. I did it again, teasing him further. Then I started to kiss down a wet line over his jaw and down his neck, his clavicle until my lips found his nipple again. He was gasping and moaning and holding my head right where it was, clearly wanting more. It was just that I had to bend over at a strange angle that made my position a bit uncomfortable. So I stopped with some regret and, trying not to ruin the mood, I whispered into his ear: "Bedroom?"

We stumbled towards Sherlock's bedroom manhandling each other hotly. When he pinned me against his bedroom's door, his hands tugging on my belt urgently, I'd already lost my shirt and my neck felt hot with what had to be several bite marks. When we finally landed on the bed I was left with only my boxer briefs and a t-shirt and I had Sherlock bare-chested.

When we were first together, years ago, Sherlock had quite an obsession with my upper body. When we were making love back then, Sherlock would always get me naked from the waist up first and trace the lines of the muscles he found there with his lips and tongue. We'd both get hard from that and then I would either pounce on him and pin him to the mattress under me or lie back and let him have his way with me.

Right now it was me who couldn't get enough of his body. Sherlock had really soft sensitive skin and when he arched up into my touch, I could see the definition of his abs. I was leaning over him and kissed and licked my way down his sternum. His hands were roaming my waist and toying with the hem of my t-shirt when he suddenly let out a sigh of frustration and pushed me off of him.

"This isn't going anywhere", he huffed. And without casting a glance back at me, he rolled off the bed, picked up his shirt and left. The door slammed shut behind him, while I still lay on the bed gaping.

**February 2011**

I still wonder what happened there.

Five years ago, Sherlock had needed some time to really get comfortable with my body and with his own. But once he'd gotten used to... well, the whole physicalness of the act, we had great sexual chemistry. And with Sherlock's love for experimenting and his tendency to get bored quickly, we'd really set off fireworks. Now the fireworks were stuck somewhere.

When we got back together, I thought it best to take things slow, to get familiar with each other again. Maybe we were moving too slowly? Maybe that was why Sherlock was frustrated? But... well, he could have pinned me down to the bed and ravished me. No objections from my side.

I sighed when I turned right and onto Baker Street. Needless to say that I had tried to talk to him. But of course, Sherlock had chosen to ignore me and attached himself either to a microscope or an old case file whenever I tried to start an earnest conversation.

I fished the keys out of my pocket and unlocked the door to 221B. As soon as I had the door open I was greeted with a hellish noise. Within a split second, my pulse picked up speed and all my muscles tensed.

_Gunshots!_

I sprinted up the stairs. If Sherlock could get attacked with a sword blade in our own rooms... As soon as I reached the landing, though, I recognized the shooter's blue dressing gown and well-worn sleepwear. Sherlock was sprawled low in his chair and fired at the wall without even looking. A smiley face had been spray-painted on it with the yellow paint, which he'd kept as a souvenir from our last case. Two bullets had ripped holes into the wall where the eyes had been sprayed, two more had hit the curve of the smile.

"What the hell are you doing?" I yelled at him.

"Bored." he mumbled sulkily.

I squinted at him in disbelief. "What?"

"Bored!" he yelled back and jumped up from his seat. He switched the gun (my gun!) from his left hand to his right and I could barely cover my ears, before he fired again, then swung his arm around his back to fire once more. "Bored! Bored! Bored!" When he stood still for a second I hurried into the room and he let me take the gun without protest. Quickly I slid the clip out of the gun and locked it away in a safe under the table.

When I re-emerged from under the table, he ran his finger over his 'artwork' appreciatively. I turned to him with growing annoyance. "Sherlock! Are you out of your mind?"

 

 


	2. Frustration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I need to thank Ariane DeVere for her transcripts of the Sherlock episodes. Those are so helpful.  
> http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/46716.html

**Sherlock's POV**

I lay on the couch with my hands folded beneath my chin. John leaned over me and pecked a kiss on my lips. He said something and then I heard the door click shut as he left. Where was he going? Oh right, Stamford. He wouldn't be back for a couple of hours. And with all the criminal classes in hibernation, there was nothing nothing nothing to distract me. Hence I had too much time, time to actually feel physical needs and time to think on things that I didn't understand. Like my relationship with John...

Why did these things have to be so... fuzzy, ambiguous, inconclusive?

Somehow, I thought, things had been easier when a) our relationship was still a weekend relationship and b) filled with lots of physical pleasure. After a week of separation we'd simply rip each other's clothes off and then spend some time talking after certain needs had been satisfied.

When John came back from war he was in no condition really to have his clothes ripped off. And when he'd suggested to take things slowly, I had no complaints (well, I did but wouldn't voice them). I was willing to be very gentle and very careful with him. But that was *months* ago. Now, John's physical condition was as good as it would get (some remaining stiffness in the leg, slightly restricted mobility of arm and shoulder). He'd also weaned himself off his sleeping pills and nightmares only occurred from time to time (usually when there wasn't a case to keep us busy).

But to this very day, we had not 'done the deed'. John was putting it off. And it wasn't only penetrative sex that he was putting off. No, it was worse than that. He wouldn't let me see it. His scar. In fact, he didn't want me anywhere near his shoulder. Whenever my fingers travelled close to the old wound, he flinched. Whenever I came close to removing his t-shirt, he tensed up. He even managed to share a bathroom with me without ever letting me see him shirtless.

With all the time I spent in the morgue, looking at the victims of violent crimes, did he really think a scarred gunshot wound could turn me off? I knew its size and location anyway. I knew from the medical report I'd read that the bullet had shattered his clavicle. The location could be further deduced from the mobility of his arm and shoulder (the wound was on his chest rather than his shoulder). Size was a bit more tricky, but the calibre had been large enough to break through the body armour he'd been most surely wearing and still shatter the bone.

Anyway, there was no good reason for hiding it.

And, what made the whole thing even more absurd, were John's simultaneous efforts to make himself attractive. For once, John was letting his hair grow out some and he had started to dye it - highlighting the blond and covering up the grey. And, more interestingly, he'd started to work out again. Actually, he'd started less than 72 hours after we first kissed. And I could watch his body regain some of its former shape even through the t-shirts he kept wearing. He looked younger again and he was walking beside me radiating confidence and strength. God, I wanted him. And feeble were my attempts to keep my body from wanting him, all my usual control be damned.

He knew I'd always been attracted to his well-muscled arms and chest. How could he keep them from me now? And, if I wasn't supposed to see the fruits of his work, then who was he working out for, anyway? For Sarah? Ohh Sarah - short, attractive, cool, funny Sarah. How I hated the very name. Sure, they were just friends - friends who found each other attractive. An open threat - that's what she was. If I didn't play along with whatever game John was playing then he could very simply walk out of here and try his luck with Sarah. *He* could always find someone else.

I sighed. But, to make all of this a bit more confusing still, John was at the same time... well, a very sweet considerate boyfriend.

I thought back on the last case we handled together. The one with the Chinese jade hair pin.

*

I'd been sitting at the dining table searching the web for auctions involving rare Asian works of art. "Here, John", I'd said, pointing at the screen.

"Mmm." He came closer to stand behind me, close enough I could feel the warmth emanating from him.

"Arrived from China four days ago. Anonymous bidder. Vendor doesn’t give his name. Two undiscovered treasures from the East." I continued, eagerly typing in the next query. "... antiquities sold at auction... mmh, what are you doing?"

John's hands had found their way to my shoulders and started to massage lightly. "You're tense", he murmured, close to my ear. "You'll be hurting all over when this is done." And then he bent down to kiss my neck.

"... nngh... ohh... John, I'm on a case." I admonished quietly but turned round to steal a quick kiss, anyway. His pupils dilated beautifully when I did it.

*

I sighed again. Another time we'd been sitting before the fire place. I'd gazed into his eyes and let my fingertips caress his wrist and inner arm - nothing more, just that. His pulse sped up immediately. And then at times he'd try to feed me coke and pretzel sticks when I wouldn't eat while on a case. So, if he did care for me and if the chemistry was right, then what was going wrong?

What if this was about a woman? About Sarah or, since symptoms had been there before she'd made her appearance, about another woman?

John had been writing something on his laptop earlier and he'd been smiling and writing rapidly (or as rapidly as you could write with two fingers - oh John!). I rolled off the couch. His burgundy-coloured laptop sat on the table. He'd changed the password the day before. Shouldn't take more than 90 seconds.

***

"Sherlock! Are you out of your mind?"

I let myself fall down on the sofa, wrapping my dressing gown around myself.

John exhaled and took off his coat without taking his eyes off of me. "Sulking, mh?" he queried. "That bad? I mean we had some smashing cases not too long ago."

"Indeed", I tried to say as nonchalantly as possible and picked up a magazine so I wouldn't have to look at him. "I see you've written up the taxi driver case. 'A Study in Pink'. Interesting." I was watching him out of the corner of my eye, gauging his reaction. What would he say, now that I found out about his stupid blog?

But John just sat down in *my* chair, seemingly with no guilty feeling. "Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone – there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

"If I *liked* it?" I asked back, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Let me think about it. Erm, no!"

Still, John remained infuriatingly calm. "Why not? I thought you’d be flattered."

"Flattered?" I felt like jumping up from the couch, but contented myself with lowering the magazine and glaring at him. "Oh, I'm supposed to be flattered when you write things like: 'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things'?"

"Sherlock, that's one sentence..."

"Two."

"... two sentences out of a three thousand words long blog entry. Would you please look at the bigger picture?" He got up from his chair and crouched next to the couch. "I mean, have you seen the papers? They gave Lestrade all the credit for solving the case. No word about what you did. I couldn't stand that." He lifted his hand to brush a curl out of my eyes, but I swapped his hand away and turned from him, curling into the couch and burying my face in the cushions.

It was just the same thing happening over and over again. Kids pointing at the freak, who knew things nobody could know and who didn't know things everybody else did know. Only this time it was John... John and probably Sarah, laughing together at the whole freakishness of me. The very thought felt like acid in my veins.

I heard a sigh behind me. "If it makes you feel better, I'll delete that one sentence. But Sherlock, this isn't the most mature reaction!"

"Freaks don't need to be mature." I mumbled into the cushions.

"Sherlock..."

"Put that in your blog." I turned enough to speak more clearly. "Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world. You're a *part-time* doctor, John, not a writer!" With that I curled up again.

I heard the chair's springs squeak. John had gotten up. Then there was the rustling of clothes, clearly John was putting his coat back on. I turned to look up over my shoulder. "Where are you going?"

"Out. I need some air." he replied tightly and jogged down the stairs without another word.

He must've met Mrs. Hudson on the stairs, their voices mingled in the hall briefly. I buried my face in the cushions once more. "Ooh-ooh!" Mrs. Hudson walked into the flat, her voice cheerful but her steps just a bit heavier than usual (carrying something). I turned my head to acknowledge her (yes, two shopping bags - groceries). "Have you two had a little domestic?"

I could hear the door downstairs click shut. Flailing to get up, I quickly stood up on the couch and took the shortest route, over the coffee table, to the window that looked out over the street. I watched as he crossed the street in the general direction of 'away from me'.

"Ooh, it’s a bit nippy out there. He should have wrapped himself up a bit more."

_He doesn't have any warm winter coats. He should get himself a nice warm green parka, like the one he had when he fetched me from that hospital, all those years ago. Or I could..._

But Mrs. Hudson roused me from my thoughts by choosing that exact moment to discover my artwork. "What've you done to my bloody wall?!" she gasped. "I’m putting this on your rent, young man!" She left me behind, cursing some more under her breath.

I turned back and a smirk snuck its way back on my face. Born of frustration, but a nice piece of art it was. That was my last thought, though, before the windows blew in and the blast of a massive explosion outside hurled me to the floor. I groaned.

 

 


	3. Talking

**John's POV**

I groaned watching Rooney hit the post shortly before half time. I was taking another swig from my beer when someone nudged me in the arm lightly. I turned from the TV screen to see a familiar face at the bar next to me. "Inspector Lestrade", I said surprised.

"Greg", he said, extending his hand. "I'm off duty."

"John." I shook his hand.

"You're into football?" he asked.

"Now and then, I am." Whenever I needed some space I was. This was my official getting-away-from-Sherlock pub.

He chuckled. "Same here." That grim weathered smile didn't seem to leave his face, even when he was off duty. Judging from the generally worn-out look on the man's face, this might have been his getting-away-from-something pub as well. "There's a free table over there", he said then. "Wanna sit down?"

*

A bit later that evening we were chewing on some chips and we were well into our second or third pints. We'd been talking about football, the weather, London and at some point the conversation turned to what it always turned to when two guys were having a beer or two - women. But here the inspector stumbled over his own words once or twice, remembering suddenly that I was actually in a relationship with a man.

I chuckled, setting my pint down on the small table between us. "It's alright, you know? Before I met Sherlock, I had just broken up with Samantha... or well, maybe she broke up with me."

"So... uh you dated women, too? That's good. I mean... I didn't mean it that way. I... oh you know, ignore me." He was scratching the back of his head with that mildly embarrassed look that I'd come to know already.

I was chuckling again and I was starting to feel the alcohol - clearly out of practice when it came to drinking. I watched as Lestrade sipped his beer pensively and couldn't help but wonder: what did I actually know about this rare friend of Sherlock's? Not much actually. A couple of things were obvious, though, even if my name wasn't Sherlock Holmes. First, Detective Inspector Lestrade was a man who'd seen a lot. Considering his age, he might have been with Scotland Yard for fifteen to twenty years already. There wasn't much that could still upset him. After all, this was a man that even Sherlock couldn't upset. When Sherlock was being... extraordinary again, you'd find Lestrade standing by, commenting on it with a dry remark. Second, this was a man who wasn't a hundred percent comfortable with the idea of two guys kissing, but third actually really liked Sherlock and tried to look out for him.

The inspector's deep roughened voice brought me back from my musings. "One thing you gotta tell me, though", he said with a small cynical smirk. "How does anyone fall for Sherlock Holmes?"

I rested my face on my hand and smiled into my own pint wistfully for a moment. Then I looked up again. "Haven't you ever witnessed one of his brilliant moments... the innocence on his face when he just discovered something amazing?"

Lestrade gave a short laugh. He knew what I was talking about. A short silence ensued and I stared into space for a moment. God, I'd fallen for Sherlock a long time ago and I'd fallen so hard. Why did things have to be so difficult then? But that reminded me of something else: Lestrade was also a man who knew about Sherlock's past! Actually he knew a lot more than I did. That much was clear, especially since I last ran into him while we were on that Chinese case.

*

Sherlock had sent me to collect the diary of that smuggling journalist Brian Lukis from Inspector Dimmock at Scotland Yard. Dimmock gave it to me with some grumbling and I was flicking through the pages on my way out, when I almost bumped into Lestrade.

"John. John Watson." he said, glancing at the diary in my hands. "What are you doing here?"

"I..."

" Sherlock's on that dead banker's case, isn't he?" he asked. He was carrying his coat, along with a pile of papers. His short hair stood out in weird directions as if he'd raked his fingers through it.

I took a deep breath. "Yes."

"How did he get into this one? Dimmock didn't call him in." Before I could reply, he turned round and called out some orders. The inspector was in a hurry clearly, but when he turned back he focused on me with an intensity that told me he needed to know this and he needed to know this now.

"He uhm... has a client in the bank."

"In Shad Sanderson's bank? Is that client called Sebastian Wilkes by any chance?"

"I guess... the client asked for discretion?" I replied, unsure of what was the right course of action here. Was this becoming a police interrogation?

"Yeah, sod that. Do you know who Sebastian Wilkes is?"

"He uhm went to Uni with Sherlock?!"

He huffed. "That all they told you? Sebastian Wilkes is Sherlock's drug dealer, that's who he is. I gotta go, but John, you're watching out for him, aren't you?"

*

"There's something I need to ask you..." I started slowly. Greg looked up at me seriously, catching the change in my tone. "This Sebastian Wilkes character, how did you know that he was... selling things? To Sherlock?"

Lestrade sat back in his chair and stared out a window at the far end of the pub. "That's a rather long story. Took me some time 'til I found out. No need to tell you that Sherlock isn't an easy guy to figure out."

"Hm. No. But you know, it's not actually Wilkes that I'm interested in. Tell me something... how did you first meet Sherlock? What was he like?" I looked at him sincerely. "Please, it's... it's difficult to talk to Sherlock about these things."

"I guess it is. God, I really crave a smoke right now. But..." The inspector fumbled for something in his coat pockets. "I quit. So it's this." He'd retrieved a nicotine patch. He ripped the package open while he started to talk. "Well, as I told you, it was Sherlock who found me one day. It was a bit of a tricky murder case. He'd read about it in the papers. There was a picture of the scene and there was my name in the article. He'd recognized something in the picture as an obvious hint that we had missed. That was in November 2005."

"Some months after I left." I mumbled, then took a long gulp from my beer. "We didn't really part on good terms." I added quietly, shaking my head.

He nodded pensively. "Yeah, thought so. He really was in a bad state." I cringed once more hearing that, but Greg held up a hand quickly. "I don't think he blamed you. I think he missed you. You know, it took me some time really to gain his trust. He was like a whipped dog - mistrusting, shying away from anyone who tried to get just a little bit close to him. But he was trying to... break through the surface, to get clean again. He was really trying. And he told me he owed it to an old friend to get himself back on track. If you ask me, he got himself into this misery and only then realized his mistake - whatever that was. I don't know what happened between you guys."

I toyed with my phone where it lay on the table. I'd texted Sarah some while ago. She was going to collect me here when she was done watching movies with her mother. But maybe the ground would just swallow me whole, before she got here. Some part of me hoped it would. "When you say he missed me... I mean how...?" What a pathetic question. Still, I just needed to know.

He regarded me with some sympathy now. "Yeah well, I always tried to get him to talk. Wasn't very successful with that. But you know, there was this young guy, only twenty-six years old, highly intelligent, with a public school accent and he was shooting up regularly. I had to try. Anyway, I did ask him about this mysterious old friend."

"What did he say?"

"He said: 'He's gone and I'll never get him back.' We raised a number of cups of coffee to absent friends. And then there was this book."

"Book?" I asked surprised.

"Yeah, he'd lost it all you know? He'd quit his studies, his job at Bart's, he was sleeping in drug hideouts, but he clung to that one book." Lestrade looked at me expectantly.

"Huh? You don't mean 'In Hot Blood: A Casebook of Historic British Crimes of Passion'?" I blushed a little.

"That's the one", Greg replied chuckling.

"Oh my, I gave him that for his birthday. It was half a joke. It was because Sherlock said he didn't understand these things, before... it doesn't matter."

The inspector laughed his grim cynical laugh. "I'm getting the idea, thanks. But he can't know I told you that. He'd kill me in hot and cold blood."

I blushed some more and laughed along. "My lips are sealed." I managed to say.

There was a short span of silence again, but not an uncomfortable one. I didn't make friends very quickly usually, but I found I did like the detective inspector. I really did. And I was getting the idea that Sherlock and I might both owe him something. "What did you do?" I asked. He looked at me quizzically. "I mean, seeing him in that state... and... well..."

"Hm, I took him in, let him stay at my place for a couple of weeks and I tried to get him in a withdrawal program, but he wouldn't let that happen. Said he'd do it on his own and I said I'd keep discussing cases with him, if he did clean up his act. Guess, that was a good incentive. He did get clean... at least for most of the time. I think one day he just sauntered into St. Bart's again. People wondered where he'd been, but most never found out."

"Sounds like him", I mused, shaking my head and toying with my phone again. "Well... thank you."

"Huh? What for?" It was Lestrade's turn to blush slightly.

"For doing your part in saving him." I said quietly.

He was uncomfortable clearly and fumbling for something appropriate to say to that. He didn't have to reply, though, since Sarah chose that moment to walk in on us. I got up quickly and she greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. I introduced them quickly and Sarah excused herself to the loo.

Lestrade looked at me with a big grin on his face. "You're a proper lady's man, Watson!"

I winked. "Not since I met Sherlock."

***

Okay, so I *have* been a lady's man once. I've been in long-time relationships and then there'd been affairs and flings and one-night stands, especially during that time when I was travelling a lot, because the Army was sending me here and there and back again. Actually, I have experienced the taste of sweet feminine lips on three different continents. But you know what? I never got breakfast like that! As it turned out, Sarah really liked French breakfast. So we were having croissants and jam and crepes with salted butter and fruit salad and scrambled eggs and lots of coffee.

"Mmh, you're spoiling me Sarah", I said while taking another bite from those fantastic crepes. "You do that for your dates, too?"

"Nope", she laughed. She sat back cradling her French coffee mug with both hands. She looked stunning even in her pyjama bottoms and long-sleeved cotton top. "Just for my new best friends."

"Oh", I said surprised. "Uhm... I mean, am I?"

"Sure you are... or at least I hope you'll be", she replied, tugging a strand of bright red hair back behind her ear, a little bit unsure suddenly. "I mean it's so good to just talk to a guy for once. And", she added conspiratorially, "you are a man and you've been in relationships with men... and with women. There are things I need to ask you!"

I laughed heartily. "Okay, I don't think I've ever been anyone's gay best friend, before. Not sure I fit the role description. But I'll do my best." Especially if gay best friends got better treatment than boyfriends.

"You're doing fine so far." She grinned at me from ear to ear.

 _Just look at her_ , I thought. _Intelligent, classy, charming!_ Even her kitchen was charming, with that white round table we were sitting at and all those jars holding spices and cookies with handwritten labels on them. _If it wasn't for Sherlock...Wouldn't it be easier with her?_

A shadow of sadness must've passed over my face at that thought. Sarah picked up on it immediately, like really only a woman could. "Okay, now, as my new best friend, you *have* to tell me what's going on between you and Sherlock!" She set down her cup, all ears and all business.

I groaned. "It's complicated. But you know, he's been through a lot. Maybe I don't do him justice. Maybe I just shouldn't expect so much." _Maybe I should just shelter him and keep him close._

"Coming to his defence, before anyone said anything against him. That's so sweet." Sarah commented. "But no matter if you *should* be upset with him, there *is* something upsetting you."

"Sarah, I... love him", I said simply. There it was. I looked up into her eyes. She held my gaze with warmth and with wistfulness at the same time. "But it's just so difficult all the time. And he just won't talk to me about any of the problems we have. If he can't handle it, then he simply shuts me out. Or holes up sulking. It's... like being with a teenager sometimes. But you know, I don't want a teen relationship. I want the real thing." _Wow, did that come out all at once?_

"Oh my, but I can relate", she said smiling sympathetically. "God knows, I've had a boyfriend who was like that. I mean... maybe not like Sherlock exactly. But we were like twenty-eight and he was acting like eighteen. And it's just not what you want. When you're twenty you count the text messages he sent you to see if he loves you." I chuckled. She continued: "Or I guess nowadays the kids count facebook likes and comments. But when you're thirty, you know he loves you, because he tells you he loves you."

I heaved a huge sigh.

"Oh, I mean..." Seeing that this struck a sore spot, she tried to back paddle. "Since you guys are really serious, I thought..."

"Yeah well, I've told him of course. But... he never said it back to me."

"Oh... Oh!" She reached out a hand and placed it over mine comfortingly. "But... well, relationships are all different. And isn't that just him being him?"

"Yeah, it is. Actually I couldn't even picture him saying something like that." I sighed again. "But in every other relationship this would be a bad sign."

She squeezed my hand and we kept talking for a while. Sarah was right. It did feel good to just talk to someone for once. It occurred to me that I didn't have a lot of friends I could talk to. Actually I had hardly any, which made her all the more precious. When it was getting a bit late, Sarah stood up announcing she really needed to get a shower. I offered to clear the table.

"Just put the food in the fridge. I'll do the rest. Turn on the telly, if you like!" She called over her shoulder and disappeared in the bathroom. I found the remote and did as I was told. They were talking about some re-discovered painting and I didn't really pay attention, until...

// Back now to our main story. There’s been a massive explosion in central London. //

I almost dropped the French raw milk cheese and turned on my heel to see pictures of a street in central London with brickwork scattered all over the pavement. The headline on the bottom of the screen read: 'House destroyed on Baker Street.'

A sudden chill gripped my chest. _Sherlock!_

// As yet, there are no reports of any casualties, and the police are unable to say if there is any suspicion of terrorist involvement. //

I hurried into the hall to grab my jacket and then knocked at the bathroom door. "Sarah?"

// Police have issued an emergency number for friends and relatives ... //

I knocked again, putting my jacket on quickly. "Sarah? Sorry – I’ve got to run."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just had to listen to lots of sad moody music to get this conversation with Lestrade done. What do you guys think?


	4. Making Up

**Sherlock's POV**

I'd been glaring at John's chair with annoyance all morning - first because it remained empty with a rare stubbornness and then because it wasn't empty anymore, but still not holding John. Cradling the violin against my chest - my last bit of comfort - I regarded my illustrious guest with all the disdain I could muster. "I can't possibly help, Mycroft", I said with mock sweetness. Playing a pizzicato note, I waited for his reaction. My brother exhaled audibly and opened his mouth to reply. But then the front door opened and closed.

"Sherlock?" A voice calling from the hall. I felt the corners of my mouth twitch upwards and plucked the strings once more. John came rushing up the stairs, calling out for me again. "Sherlock!"

My face fell, though, when he came into view. There were bags under his eyes (didn't sleep well) and they were slightly reddened, too (consumed alcohol), but his stomach was bulging (ate well this morning). So, who'd consume alcohol with a man, keep him up at night and then send him forth well-fed and content? A woman!

"John", I acknowledged him with narrowed eyes. "How's Sarah?"

This made Mycroft turn round in his seat. He gave John a quick once-over and turned back to me. "Relax, Sherlock. He clearly slept on the sofa."

As if to prove Mycroft's point, John reached up to absently rub the back of his stiff neck with one hand. Otherwise, he'd completely ignored our brief exchange. His eyes were still fixed on me and he looked me up and down, as if searching for any sign of injury. "I... saw it on the telly. Are you alright?"

His eyes only left me to glance over the debris covering the carpet. I followed his gaze, realizing the living room still looked like a battlefield. "Me? Yes, sure." He stepped closer and hovered next to my chair. His hand was twitching to reach out and grasp mine. He didn't do it, though, possibly feeling insecure because of yesterday's argument. So I reached out my hand and took just his fingertips between my own. I could see Mycroft roll his eyes at our show of intimacy. I turned back to him with a sardonic grin. "By the way, John, this is my brother Mycroft. Mycroft, this is John. Or have you met?"

Mycroft's face turned to stone at this. He toyed with the handle of his umbrella for a moment, while I continued to rub John's fingers between my own. Then my brother looked up again with narrowed eyes. "You might as well quit playing games now, Sherlock."

"I might", I conceded smirking. Ah, this was getting better and better. "But you can't blame me for my curiosity. After all, look how he reacts to seeing you. Shoulders stiff, teeth grit, left hand twitching to clench into a fist. And officially you two barely know each other. Tell me, brother mine: Why would our good-natured John react like that?"

He held my gaze coolly. Then he turned to smile at John humourlessly. "I'm afraid my brother can be most unforgiving. No matter how many conciliatory steps I take."

"Conciliatory?" I huffed.

"Anyway", Mycroft continued unimpressed. "This is not about our petty quarrels. This.." He held up the yellowish folder he'd brought with him. "... is a matter of national importance."

Anger rose up like bile. A petty quarrel? So *his* role in *our* breakup had caused a petty quarrel in his opinion? And he thought he could brush that 'petty quarrel' aside as if it was nothing? He had the nerve to hold out that folder to me. I glared at him and plucked another pizzicato note.

Mycroft sighed and, infuriatingly calm, held out the folder to John. "Maybe you can get through to him, John!"

"Me?" John asked surprised.

"Oh, good move, Mycroft", I commented sarcastically, anger probably still audible in my voice. "Trying to recruit John for a matter of national security. He's all queen and country, our good John. And pathologically loyal, too. He'd be easy to recruit, if he didn't hate you."

"I ... uhm..." John hesitated. But when Mycroft kept holding his folder out to him (and in an increasingly menacing way), John (looking startled) took it and regarded the thing suspiciously. "So, uh... what is this about?"

"Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends." Mycroft said, giving me a winning smile. At this point, I was gritting my teeth. "A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

John stepped back and sat down on the coffee table. "Jumped in front of a train?"

"Seems the logical assumption." Mycroft said while getting up.

"But?" John asked, looking up from the folder on his knees.

"But?" Mycroft repeated as if John's questions presented an insolence.

"Well, you wouldn’t be here if it was just an accident." This time, gratifyingly, John held my brother's gaze steadily and with just the hint of a cheeky smile.

I'd picked up a small cloth and started to apply rosin to the bow. Now I had to smirk as well. _John isn't that easily intimidated, Mycroft!_

He exhaled once again, dramatically, then squared his shoulders and deigned to continue - despite the insolence around him. "The Ministry of Defence is working on a new missile defence system – the Bruce-Partington Programme, it’s called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

At that John dared to snigger even. "That wasn’t very clever." I had to smile in agreement.

Mycroft looked at me, then at John and decided to glare at both of us. "It’s not the only copy. But it *is* secret. And missing. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can’t possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He turned back to me. "You have to find it, Sherlock! Don't make me order you."

I raised the violin to my shoulder. "I'd like to see you try."

Mycroft planted himself in front of me, only to lean down in an attempt to look more threatening. "Think it over."

"Oh, what would you do?" I hissed. "Kidnap my lover, *again*? Lock him up in a dark vault until I comply?"

He raised his eyebrows in a telltale way, then without another word turned and walked over to John, offering him his hand to shake."Goodbye, John." Politely, John stood and shook his hand. "See you very soon." Mycroft said and smiled at him in a deliberately creepy way. John tried his best not to look nervous.

Snarling, I played the most irritating sequence of notes that I could think of. When Mycroft was gone, I let the bow sink and stared into space. _Would he? Try to pressure me? Try to use John against me somehow?_ I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut. I opened them again when I felt a warm roughened palm on the back of my hand. John was crouching in front of my chair and looking up at me with worry.

"You okay?" he asked sweetly.

I stared at him unmoving.

"So you know about Mycroft's role in... well...?" His thumb stroked circles over my cold hand.

I stared into his warm dark blue eyes for a moment, wondering. "You never told me", I said so quietly that he was straining to hear me.

He sighed and locked eyes with me imploringly. "Wouldn't have done much good, hm? After all, he was your brother and I was gone."

I couldn't really place that stinging swimming sensation in my eyes, but maybe John could. He grabbed my hand and pressed it against his warm stubbly cheek. "Hey, we're back together - right now, right here. And we won't let anyone break us up this time."

I sniffed and shook my head. "John, it's impossible to make that kind of statement for future ev..."

"Just shut up", he said smiling and tugged on my arm to make me lean towards him until he could kiss me.

It was a very soft kiss, his lips barely brushed mine. Why was he so very gentle? Did he think me fragile in any way? Couldn't have that, could we? I leaned in further to deepen the kiss . John tasted of coffee and the sweetened breakfast Sarah had obviously fed him with. Not a bad taste anyway. I could feel his lips curl into a smile when I made contended sounds and pressed forward to get more of the taste. Eventually John sat back on the carpet and pulled me down with him until I sat in his lap. He brushed my hair aside to nibble at my ear - something that always coaxed incoherent sounds from me. Surprisingly, he also brought up one arm around my lower back to press my hips against his own more firmly. He was hard.

"John..."

He chose to gasp close to my ear. "Want this with you."

 _Do you? Do you, really?_ I drew back for a moment to look at him. Pupils were blown, pulse racing and he *was* hard. Slowly I lowered him onto the floor and stretched out on top of him. Our lips met again passionately and his hand was in my hair. My hand traveled down to the buttons of his jeans, undoing them one by one. I rarely had the patience to tease him, but right now it felt appropriate. So, I let my fingers crawl over his cotton underwear very slowly and delighted in the soft gasps it caused. I bent my head to lick and bite at his throat while my hand cupped him through his pants, knowing how this would heighten his arousal.

Some annoying sound appeared, distracting. Took a moment to register. _Phone? Yes, phone!_ Leaving my left hand right where it was inside of John's trousers, I used my right to retrieve the phone from my pockets. "Lestrade!" I said happily. Under me, John grunted and rolled his eyes. He could hardly complain, could he? Since I was still fondling him. To emphasize this point I stroked him more earnestly while listening to Lestrade describing a case that didn't sound that intriguing, yet. For some reason, John didn't seem to like it, since he arched up and bit my throat with a bit too much force.

I gasped involuntarily. 'Sherlock, you ok?' Lestrade asked and I blushed. Well, I wouldn't be the only one embarrassed here. "John", I moaned deliberately. "Stop that, I'm on the phone." I chuckled quietly seeing John blush beet red and hearing Lestrade make a flustered excuse to hang up quickly.

I lay the phone aside and made to get up, but John just flopped back on the floor and threw an arm over his eyes. "I can't believe you answered that!"

I chuckled. "You think I'd miss a case?"

"But we were about to..."

"And we can naturally proceed when there is no case", I explained. "Come on", I said patting his leg to make him get up. "Your next blog entry is waiting."

 

 


End file.
